


Some Things In Common

by lokis_advocate



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, Thunderstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-11-09 13:23:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokis_advocate/pseuds/lokis_advocate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mutual fears lead to mutual cuddling. Frostiron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Tony Stark. Visionary. Genius. Billionaire. Playboy. Philanthropist. Super-hero. Iron Man.

Spooked by thunder storms.

Not scared of them, definitely not, just spooked. The Iron Man wasn’t scared of anything. That didn’t mean, though, that he didn’t have the right to jump a little when the freaking apocolypse was happening in God’s great heaven. Or, the gods’ great heaven, as he’d recently learned— the sky belonged to Thor and his little alien buddies. 

Now, one would think being friends with the god of thunder itself would dumb down this little fear— excuse me, quirk— concerning storms. Oh no, it made it worse, if anything. Sometimes Tony couldn’t walk to the kitchen without having to dodge lightening bolts. He didn’t know if Thor was just trying to keep everyone on their toes or if he just felt thunderous sometimes. He tried his best not to find out, just tried to be cautious.

One particular night, though, Tony woke to WW3 and it had nothing to do with Thor. The storm outside was an act of nature itself, not a happy/angry/drunk blonde with a hammer. It was one of Malibu’s many ground-shaking storms, nothing uncommon and everything unwelcome, and a particularily loud one. The engineer lay on his back in the bed that was four sizes too big for him on purpose, with his head on the bare mattress instead of one of the thirty silk pillows lining the headboard. He’d stripped himself down to a sheet and kicked off the goose-feather comforter and 100%-best-quality-cotton blanket. 

“JARVIS, moniter weather patterns in the immediate West-coast area using National Oceanic and Atmospheric data,” Tony mumbled, looking at the rising storm through his window-wall, where little glowing screens were popping up on his orders, “pull up precipitation levels, wind speed, and air pressure, and display radar and satellite images. Alert of all warnings.” Talking to his computer(which promptly replied, “yes, sir”) always calmed him down. When he couldn’t control the weather(and he was working on that), he could control his house, so he gave it as many commands as he could. Glancing at the window, where dozens of little graphs and readings were bouncing and glittering, he nodded internally and turned on his side. Can’t pull anything on Tony Stark, Mother Nature. He was prepared for anything.

Except for, maybe, the God of Mischief popping into the middle of his bedroom.

It had happened during the loudest crash of thunder he’d heard all night, so he’d sat up on instinct and was met with the one of the world’s most mentally disturbed criminals, soaking wet and windblown and staring at Tony with magic in his glowing green eyes. A bleating cry immediately sounded on the PA and the window/wall/screen flashed a dangerous red.

“JARVIS, cancel the alarm,” Tony called, and he wasn’t sure why, until he’d looked closer at Loki and realized why his subconcious had said that. 

Loki was shivering. From the rain, obviously, but there was something other than magic in the Trickster’s eyes that told Tony another reason he’d shown up shaking in his midevil leather boots. He was afraid, and from the way he cringed like a wounded animal at the next flash of lightening, Tony guessed it was from the harsh display of elements outside. 

The Iron Man recalled all the way back to the first time they’d apprehended Loki. They were on their way to SHIELD HQ when they were interupted by a certain grabby older brother. Thor had come down with a bang, literally, and Tony remembered clearly the look on Loki’s face; it was that of a child, scared, lost in a crowd, hearing monsters in the closet. That little light show had only lasted for fifteen seconds; this storm had been going on for hours.

The pale deity stood rooted to his spot, glancing around anxiously but not really looking at anything. His back was bent to match his knees, almost like he was going to pounce. Tony cleared his throat and he almost did.

“Uh,” Tony began, but wasn’t really sure where to go after that. His enemy in his bedroom, his suit was no where near, and both men flinched at loud sounds the sky made. This wasn’t exactly a situation you got into everyday. Night. Was it still night? “So, uh, not much for thunderstorms, huh?”

Loki turned his gaze on the engineer with such ferocity that Tony shifted his weight on his elbows. Tony continued, “you’d think growing up with Thor would have the opposite influence on you.”

Something changed in the god. He stood a little straighter, but his cast his wide eyes at the ground. His hands were grabbing at the thin air in front of him. A second later, another flash and a crash shook the house and rattled both the windows and Tony’s nerves, and the man of Iron could have sworn he heard and actual yelp come from the leather-clad menace in the middle of the room. Actually, he was closer to the bed, now. Was he inching? 

Tony weighed his options. One, he could call the Avengers and arrest Loki while he was emotional incapacitated. Two, he could go grab his suit and fight the god himself. Three, he could do something completely unprecedented.

“Hey,” he said, “get over here.” Tony nonchalantly patted the bed beside him. This was stupid. What did he even hope to accomplish by any of this? This was really stupid. Even Loki’s facial expression seemed to think so. That all changed, though, when another natural nuke hit and Loki was next to Tony in a flash of green light before the thunder had even cleared. 

The god was curled in on himself, his long, armor-clad arms closed around his shoulders and his knees up in a fetal postion. It looked… strange, to see someone who Tony knew had so much power in such a pathetic state. It was a real reality check for him. For so long, Loki had been the troublesome, sadistic, messed up little sociopath with a magic mind-melting stick and a lust for glory. Now, all Tony could see was the broken little brother with no place to turn but his own enemy’s house. 

Why had he come here in the first place, Tony only now took the time to think about, why not Steve’s apartment or Bruce’s lab, wherever it was nowadays? Why Tony?

He looked down to ask him any one of these things, only to find that his new house guest was now breathing evenly in what could only be a releived sleep. Tony almost smiled, but reminded himself that Loki was getting the sheets wet and he was still the bad guy and that it was already 1:42:39 AM. He tugged at the sheets and rolled over to a dry spot on the bed and fell asleep with a murderous maniac at his side.

* * *

The next morning was gray and breezy with broken bits of palm trees hanging off the edge of the cliffs that Tony’s mansion was built on. The smell of the automated Kurig wafted in and out of Tony’s nostrils and forced him back to the waking world. He absently wondered if that was one of the Nine realms Thor often swore to, and then remembered last night’s late-night guest.

Tony flipped over and violently tore at the covers, trying to find some kind of clue that he hadn’t dreamt that, because in some distant part of his mind he wouldn’t admit existed, he kind of wished he hadn’t.

There was no Loki. The sheets were dry. The pillows were stiff. There were no puddles or scuff marks on the floor. No sign at all that Loki had been there the previous night.

Other than a note that was left on the window, written in curly green magic letters, that Tony saw when he rolled over.

“This never happened and it never again shall.”

Tony smiled because he knew that it had, and it would.


	2. With the Dawn

It was 5:15:52 AM.  
The thunderstorm had cleared to naught but a steady rain and the dancing shapes on the window told of no further danger. Loki could see out onto the long stretch of ocean beyond the Malibu cliff, and observed that it was slowly coming to a calm after it's late-night tantrum. Tony was fast asleep beside him.  
Loki's memory gradually came back to him as the panic and frustration ebbed with the waves. The past few hours had come and gone in a blur, with too much happening at once to take anything to heart. There was running, confusion, fear, and relief, but too many pieces to put together...  
Green eyes snapped open completely. Loki remembered.   
A cliff, located on the shore somewhere in Washington state, had fallen siege to a powerful storm. Thinking at first that this was the work of his brother, for who else could summon so mighty a monsoon, Loki prepared for a swift battle. After an hour of waiting poised for his brother, he began to panic, as the water level rose and the thunder grew louder. The cave he perched in began to fill rapidly with water until Loki was forced to either swim or teleport out. There was no magic that could calm the rage of the heavens.   
In a moment of despair, Loki thought of a safe place, a haven from this storm and a shield from the eyes of mortals who would do him harm. He closed his eyes, now burning desperately with magic.  
When he opened them, he had arrived with a crash of thunder in a bedroom. Spacious, white paint and one long window looking out on an ocean in the depths of a fit. It seems he had not escaped the storm. So where...?  
A throat was cleared. The god jumped and noticed with mounting horror that he was no where but the residence of the infamous Tony Stark. His faulty magic had brought him not to safety, but the house of his enemy! He quickly tried to gather up his magic to whisk him away, but it seemed that not only was his body embarrassingly frozen with with fear, but so was his magic.   
The human had the audacity to invite the god into his bed. Truly, Stark lived up to his reputation as the man attracted to anything that had legs and could spread them. He would soon find that Loki was not an easy catch--  
However, a fresh bout of explosions came hailing from the heavens and before Loki could think better of it, he found himself curled into a tight ball at the edge of Tony's mattress. It seemed at this point, his magic was more out for self-preservation than the preservation of his ego. But Loki did not care. He was freezing, wet, physically and emotionally exhausted, and he was sure that the mortal could not do harm to him even if he tried. So he allowed his eyes to close and his mind to slip away, in the bed of his sworn enemy.  
Four hours later, Loki sat bolt upright on that same bed, his mind a whirring machine of clever schemes and tactics and ways to get out of here with his dignity still intact. He searched his soul and found that his magic had been restored, but upon searching his body he found that he was in dire need of food. An Asgardian could be resilient when it came to appetite(one would think they were always famished when it came by Thor), but the Trickster had not eaten a scrap in weeks. It seemed that the magic used thrice the previous night and early that morning had drained him completely.  
One did not need to glance over to know Tony was still asleep; the genius's snores could be heard loud and clear. Loki pressed his pale hands to the mattress and lifted his weight onto his feet. He was grateful no one was watching as he stumbled, but then recalled that someone was always watching.   
“Are you awake, voice?” Loki murmured, keeping his speech low; he knew the bodiless entity could hear him nevertheless.   
“Always,” it replied tartly and in equally low volume. “Be aware that I have been programmed to report any and all disturbances to SHIELD the moment they occur. Your presence is classified as a disturbance, as Loki Laufeyson is number three on SHIELD's list of most wanted. It would be wise for you to evacuate the premise as soon as possible.” The entity spoke with a professional finality that Loki had not expected when speaking with a ceiling. His lips curled.  
“I am afraid I cannot depart just yet,” was the reply, and it was true, despite it's tone being hard and pestered. “I am far too fatigued to travel.” Loki was bitter that this was a fact; he wanted out of this infernal house as soon as he could manage. He waited for the voice's reply, but none came, so Loki fully regained his balance and began to wander.   
The room itself was worthy of any god. It was as large as a small house when one took into consideration the addition of the plus-sized washroom and the walk-in closet. It was neat, with white paint and surfaces polished to a shine. Truly, it was fit for the contemporary king that was Tony Stark. The pristine architecture of the chamber was only accentuated by the numerous gadgets and creations seamlessly sewn into the workings. Loki spared a little time to be awed before venturing as far as the bedroom door that hung ajar.   
Loki had always been famous amongst Asgardians for going anywhere without a sound. This came in handy when he and Thor were small and stealing sweets from the palace kitchens. A cruel smile came to his sallow cheeks as the god realized that his situation now was not so different.  
The kitchen was not so hard to find, as it was the only room that seemed to have any practical use. State-of-the-art devices and appliances lined the countless counters, baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables hung from the ceilings, and shelves laid into the white walls were stocked full of dry food and bread to last a lifetime. Loki wondered briefly if Stark knew he had this much food in his own home when all he seemed to eat was Chinese and scotch.   
He plucked a ripe pomegranate from a high basket and sliced it clean in half with a knife nearby. The utensil was sleek, beautiful, and perfectly sharp. Loki's affinity for practical weapons kicked in but he soon remembered himself. He knew the voice in the ceiling had eyes on him at all times, so he wiped the knife clean of the red juice and set it back down.   
A further tour of the palace-like home ensued as Loki delicately popped seeds into his mouth and savoured. Windows, it seemed, spanned the entirety of the building, making it so that Stark could see on all sides of him. Rooms were not defined; the house seemed to simply spill from one place to the next.   
The luxury and finesse of the design of the house went on for ages. By the time Loki sauntered back into the kitchen, it was already 6:02 AM.   
“What time does Stark usually rise?” Loki kept his voice quiet as he leaned against the counter.   
“Mr. Stark is expected at a meeting at nine o' clock this morning,” the ceiling replied. “It would be a feat if he were to wake at all before then.” It was times like this that Loki doubted the existence of the machine at all and thought for certain that Stark had just shoved a very witty and intelligent man in his roof.  
Loki's fabled tongue played at the inside of his cheek for a moment while he was in thought. He had roughly three hours before Stark was due to open his eyes. To leave now, back to his cold cave on the upper-west coast-- or to reap the benefits of his invitation? After all, Tony had let him into his bed. He'd cut off the alarms. He'd fallen asleep, vulnerable, next to his enemy. So had Loki. There was at least some level of trust coexisting between the two. Plus, the voice had said that any and all disturbances were to be reported. Loki wondered if a hot bath and a coffee counted as disturbances?  
6:43:13 AM.  
Steamy haired and soft-eyed, Loki emerged from Tony's larger-than necessary bathroom in naught but one of the genius's many silken robes(more likely than not meant for his late night “guests”). It had been so long since the god had had a proper bath; surprisingly enough, living next to a large body of water tended to make one more grimy than clean. In fact, it had been far too long since Loki had enjoyed any of the fineries he'd once experienced as daily life back in Asgard. A good meal, soft clothes, fine gardens, a sturdy roof...  
Loki mentally checked items off one by one as he scanned the room. As his eyes landed on the desk on the far side of the room, he added one more thing; coffee.  
But the coffee maker was not of the same make as the ones he'd experienced when he'd last had the luxury of Midgardian coffee. There was nothing to remove or fill or slot in, it seemed.  
“Voice,” Loki made a mental note to find out if Tony's house had a name, “how does one operate this machine?”  
“You press the button atop the machine, sir,” it curtly replied. As soon as it was said, Loki spotted the what-should-have-been obvious button of which was spoke of. As the machine began to whir and steam, Loki noted with a sly smirk that the voice had called him 'sir'.  
A little time passed, and as Loki conjured up new, clean garments for himself, the sky paled from a deep blue to the hazy light gray of a storm past. He silently commended his brother, for the sky was his ward and this morning it was art. Hints of pink and orange dusted the lower surfaces of the clouds; warnings of a bright day to come.  
Tony shifted in his sheets, and Loki knew his time was out. He was to leave now or soon be discovered, but he wouldn't leave without one last note of finality.   
He went to the window and with his fingers painted in long, swirly letters his last word. Loki turned to the ceiling and asked that any of his actions that night be kept quiet. There was no reply from the witty machine. Loki grinned, and with a string of ancient words, he took one step in Tony's posh, contemporary bedroom and another on solid rock on a blustery day in Washington.  
The only evidence that Loki had been there were the particles of magic floating to the ground in the Malibu house; the same shade as the words that shone brightly on the window like vandalism.  
“This never happened, and never again shall.”


End file.
